Clash
by Sapphire Drizzle
Summary: Albus and Rose, brilliant but opposing minds. He is cold, cruel, and nothing like his father. All she wants is to save her brother. War looms, magic consumes, and lines between right and wrong blur as they egg each other down paths no wizard has dared to tread before. This time, it's not just about saving the world. First you have to survive it. (Includes RosexScorpius)
1. Her

_A/N: First of all, this is not MY story. It is actually written by my sister but she wanted to use my account to post it. If you like it, please consider visiting the actual site of the story on Harry Potter Fanfiction. com (remove spaces) and search the username "shez" or the title "Clash"!_

_Thanks for the support! Read on!_

_Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to the original author and her publishers. This fanfiction is for entertainment purposes only._

* * *

**I:**

**Her**

**In a magic-less world, a lone survivor.**

* * *

The opening of the airlock on the sealed door was followed by a clamp and hiss. I stepped inside. After the security guard verified my clearance status, I was escorted to the cell of Prisoner 11.

Prisoner 11 had been my academic fixation for numerous months—of intensive research, topic of discussion with colleagues and mentors, of practicing queries in front of the mirror in the mornings, and yet as my gaze fell upon her red-but-graying scalp and heavily creased forehead, I was at a loss of words. In the flesh, behind the bars, she met my confusion with a courteous smile, gesturing to the chair that had been placed outside the cell, right across from her. Her age was positively inscrutable from her appearance, though what had remained of records placed her at eighty. Her legs were crossed, her hands politely folded in her lap, a practiced smile on her face—her mannerisms resembled ones of a quaint grandmother.

This was not all how I had pictured the notorious criminal sentenced to death row.

"Do sit down, Mr. Walker. I won't bite." The voice spoke, raspy and deep and so exquisitely toned it ran shivers up my spine. We were now face to face, my hands shaking tentatively as I removed pen and paper from my breast pocket. I took a deep breath.

"Ms. Weasley, I am going to state a series of facts that I will need you to validate-"

"Rose." She interrupted, her eyes bright. "Call me Rose."

I blinked momentarily but then quickly regained my composure.

"Your name is Rose Weasley."

"True."

"You are the last of your kind."

"True."

"There are no more wizards or witches in the world."

"True."

"Given the choice to live the remainder of your life in prison or death, you chose death."

"True."

"You have fifteen days to live."

"Also true."

"When you die, there will be no more magic in this world."

No reply. I looked up to meet a jaw clenched in deliberation and a pensive stare, directed at me. "Tell me, how much do you know of magic, Mr. Walker?"

I pressed my dry lips before reciting what I knew by heart: that it was a source of evil that had undisputedly ravaged countless lives, destroyed entire areas of England, caused mayhem—

"I did not ask for your professors' opinions on the matter, Mr. Walker. Or the textbook definition. What do you know, _truly know_, about magic?"

The woman studied me with an unfathomable expression. I felt dumbfounded. "Ms. We...Rose, I suppose." I stammered, "We aren't allowed to…you see, the government doesn't—"

"But that is why you're here isn't it?" She said, with a half-smile, "A graduate. Historian. _An Intellectual._ You came looking for answers, didn't you? You want to know what happened that blew the best kept secret of mankind—magic."

Had she peered into my mind and holistically assessed the essence of my soul? Could she look into my past and see the years of painstaking work I had done to get to where I stood now? I had no friends, girlfriend, or social life—only a sharp mind and an insatiable curiosity that kept me incessantly in the library poring over information of this _absurd_ world of dragons and flying broomsticks. I had discovered startling gaps in our collection of knowledge, things that could have been easily overlooked if you weren't looking for them. The Inevitable War—that took place between the magical and muggle realms fifty years ago had no _recorded_ cause. Tell me everything that happened, I said. The war—no, no the war was the end. I want to know everything that led to it. I want to know every instance, accident, revelation that resulted in the precise calculations of the downward spiral. I want to know your life, Ms. Weasley. I want to know _you_. All of you. Each and every broken piece of history that I can preserve is a step towards building a better future, and— no, that's bullshit. That's what I told the guys at the security clearance. The truth is that I have no noble reason for knowing. I'll keep your secrets. I just want to know.

"How did you survive?"

"Survive? My—because I'm a parasite." She gave me her practiced smile, "Surviving is a habit, Mr. Walker, which I have perfected over years of labored practice. The more you face, the more resilient you become. I have escaped death sentences before. If I liked, I could escape this cell, I could kill each and every one of the guards, I could kill _you_, and I would leave without too much trouble."

"But where would you go?"

"That's the problem, isn't it?" I could see the outline of every crack on her darkened face, hear the fatigue in her voice—the pain of a woman who had suffered countless indignities, who had become the monster she was through a series of hardship. "Freedom has a price, Mr. Walker. Nothing is without consequence. It took me a lifetime to understand that."

* * *

The art of witchcraft and wizardry was founded, indisputably, on the principles of science. Magic is only energy, after all. Energy that wizards use manipulate to perform various functions.

_Please let him live._

The inherent truth is that energy cannot be created or destroyed.

_He's all she had left. Can't you understand? Dammit it's just not fair!_

Needless to say there are some things that aren't humanely possible. The creation of something out of nothing. But reviving someone on the brink of death?

_God. Merlin. Please. Both of you. Either of you. Anyone. Is anyone out there?_

_Both of them drenched by rain, she sat holding his little body. Slowing pulse. Dilating pupils. He was going under again, sickly little Hugo, only this time it was different. His sweet baby face, crumpled from the severe pain, had started to relax. The hand that had so tightly gripped hers, so many times, began to loosen—no. Hot tears sprang into her eyes._

At its core though, magic isn't just a collection of spells. It's not a compilation of potion ingredients. It's not the stream of light that comes out the end of a First Year's shaky wand. It is the essence of consciousness, a fixation, an algorithm, an amplified mixture of willpower and highly concentrated neural energy. Words are a superfluous attribution, uttered to increase focus. In its simplest form, magic is an idea. And a very good idea, mind you.

_Duchenne Muscular Dystrophy. He had been a ticking clock from the day he had been born. Now he would die right in front of her. Except, he couldn't—not like this. There had to be something, anything! Vital seconds of his lifespan trickled away as she wracked her brain for answers. Concentrating as hard as she could. Ideas whirring through her mind faster than tears slipped through her eyes. Tentatively gripping her wand, she began muttering incantations—nonsense, made-up syllables. With her head bent, her focus consisted on one thing only: the preservation of his life._

_She had no idea what the hell would happen._

Just as every algorithm has a heuristic, there are techniques in magic that are able to bypass… certain technicalities. Still, you can't get nothing without something. There is always a price.

_A bright vortex of light emerged from under her, consuming Hugo's limp body. She gripped him as hard as she could to avoid separation. Wind and flame swirled around them at an impossible pace. The force, spell, whatever the hell you want to call it, was out of control. A surge of lightning shot through her body. She screamed in pain. She screamed in anger._

_"Give him back! He's all I have left!"_

_Thunder boomed in response as the destructive and reparative force burned through her insides. Then for a split second, while it felt like her entire body would be ripped apart, everything stopped. Time stood still. The searing pain vanished instantaneously. Vision blurred, noises deafened, any semblance of reality disappeared for a few brief moments, until she fell limp on Hugo's body, both of them breathing heavily. She couldn't move her legs_

_In that moment it didn't matter. Nothing else mattered. She sat there holding him in her arms, sobbing silently._ _Tears of joy_

* * *

Blinding lights struck her face as the emotionless voice pronounced her name.

"How do you plead, Miss Weasley, to the charges made against you?"

She licked her dry lips nervously, "And what would those be, your Honor?"

Amidst the crowd of indistinguishable faces, Minister Kingsley, longtime friend of her parents, gave her an impassive stare. "The use of previously untested dark magic." At this there were curious murmurs in the audience. Kingsley slammed his hammer, enforcing silence. "We don't have all day, Ms. Weasley, _how_ do you plead?"

She could feel her heart plunge. There weren't words to describe the hopelessness she felt, as the entire scenario played out in her head. From the confines of her chair, she would lift herself up, slowly, painfully, for her legs hadn't healed yet. _Your Honor, if I could just explain_—Answer the question, Ms. Weasley! How do you plead? _How the hell am I supposed to plead?! You've already made your decision, anyway. I'm going to Azkaban. _You brought your dead brother back to life. He should have died! _I saved him._ Are you aware of the transgression of your actions, Ms. Weasley? _Everything_ your parents fought, died, to protect —do you have any idea of precisely the damage you have caused in trying to play God? The ripples of your actions? The Pandora's box you have opened for every other wizard in the world? _I saved him. I don't give a damn._

"Guilty, then."

There was silence in the room as people who had been watching her collectively let their gaze swivel toward the minister, awaiting his verdict, all except the man on the left. The man on the left was dressed fashionably in a double-breasted navy plaid suit, with four button cuffs and matching trousers, possessing the fastidious expression of someone who was rarely ever pleased. The man on the left was middle-aged and wrongfully ambitious for his position as Head Auror, and had a distinctively angular face marked with a single scar running over the left side to the pointed chin. The man on the left was not interested in what the Minister had to say—he didn't like the sodding prick anyway. He was far too busy observing the fifteen-year-old girl, her tight jawline, the firmness of her brow, the occasional expression of fear that would flash in her eyes and falter the façade she held in the face of her verdict. She possessed an agile frame, nothing special but workable, and though her legs were limp and weak, with the right amount of training, he could see them become muscular. She was neither big nor small nor plain nor conventionally pretty (which was excellent, because prettiness would annoy him) but fine featured and lean. With the exception of that startlingly bright hair, she was a blank canvas. There was potential. He could morph her easily.

With a peculiar grace, the Head Auror stood up and cleared his throat.

"My dear Minister, allow me to offer a suggestion on behalf of the girl."

Kingsley considered the Head with disdainful deliberation. "Very well, Vincent."

"Grant me custody."

The Minister blinked twice, quite unsure what he had heard was correct. Never would he have considered the Head the type of man with paternal instinct or a particular fondness of children. Rather the opposite. Rose had not yet recovered from the jaw-dropping statement.

"Precisely what do you intend to do with custody?"

"I meant professional custody, of course. Allow me to make Rose Weasley an asset to the Ministry. She is young, weak, injured—but I believe there is potential in her. She can reside under my surveillance where we may study the effects of dark magic on her. In the meantime, I shall train her personally."

"Need I remind you, Vincent," The minister stated, his nostrils flaring, "that being awarded the rank of Auror is a _privilege_—which not to mention requires complete schooling and outstanding OWLS, neither of which Ms. Weasley possesses—"

"Yet it cannot be denied she has displayed prodigious talent in witchcraft."

The Minister sputtered. "Why—this is an utterly _ridiculous_ proposition…I shall not hear another word of this nonsense! It's settled! Rose Weasley is going to answer for her mistakes and _nothing else_!"

Just when Rose thought the nonsense had ended, the Head intervened again, _on her behalf:_

"My Dear Minister, you may feel comfortable with sentencing an under-aged orphan to Azkaban, but I assure you that many others in this room, much like myself, do not. Perhaps we shall put it to the jury to decide."

Rose learned something about irony that day, as each hand slowly rose to commit her fate to a lifetime of servitude, the Minister's nostrils flared, and the scary man in the suit eyed her like a champion prize horse (or perhaps a useless piece of shit. They had only just met. She was not so sure what a hawk-like glare meant yet). Within minutes she had gone from contemplating Azkaban to being adopted.

* * *

The Head lived by himself and two house elves—German, polar opposites by the names of Una and Gus who were always bickering and flinging strongly worded insults at each other. The Head enjoyed this clash of personalities in the same way one enjoys a glass of lemonade of a hot summer day. The house itself was nothing short of extravagant, with its larger than life décor and spiraling staircase, and a grand dining room with enough seating for an army yet held only a distraught girl and fashionably dressed man that particular evening.

Una and Gus had, as always, prepared a contrasting meal of Mediterranean and Japanese cuisine, though the Head wasn't as much interested in food as he was in his new ward. As he chewed on his tonkatsu slowly, he observed her from across the table—the hollow, darkened eyes, the hunched over demeanor, the mangled urchin I'm-not-hungry look.

So resolute. So… _adolescent_.

He would have crush that defiant spirit in due time, mold and shape it into submission. She would never grow if she didn't eat, and if she starved to death, he would be prosecuted on charges of abuse…which would ultimately damage his prospective chances of becoming the Minister. Unacceptable.

"Not hungry?"

No response. He tapped the tip of his glass impatiently, waiting. Was this defiance or was she just not much of a talker? Not that he minded the latter, having no interest in listening to adolescent chatter about shoes and clothes and boys and whatnot. The last thing he wanted with his new ward was a relationship _not _wrought in fear and mutual resentment.

But respect, no, respect was different. She would learn to worship the ground he walked on.

For a few brief moments they sat there as the kitchen rattled with bickering between Una and Gus. There was a clattering of pans followed by violent threats made in German.

"Gus! Put down the knife or I deduct from your pay!" The Head called.

_"Master nicht zahlen mir!"*_

This was followed by the loud pattering of feet and shrill sobbing.

"Well now look what you've done, Gus." The Head tsked, pouring himself a glass of wine, "_G_o make a healing potion and apologize to Una. This is not how families behave!"

Family. That word must've triggered something because the girl's head instantaneously shot up.

"I have aunts, uncles, cousins." She said, "I have people who have known me since birth. But no one came to the trial. Why hasn't anyone come to help me?"

"Who knows, maybe they just don't like you. Maybe no one's _ever_ liked you. Did you think of that?"

She stared at him, utterly stupefied. The Head reassessed his remark thinking that perhaps he had been insensitive. Damn this child raising business. He put down his wine glass and pulled out a cigar.

"Look, Weasley," He said as he lit it, "I know it's hard to believe it, but no one really likes orphans. When and if you have kids, you'll understand. In fact you've probably been a burden on everyone since your parents died, especially your Aunt…Germy?"

"Ginny."

He puffed, coughing as he accidentally inhaled too deeply. "Right, right. Well, life is a cruel, tough place and it's only when you're in trouble you realize how alone you are. Not to mention you've broken rules that would scare the hell out of most people. They probably think you're some reincarnation of Herpo or le Fay or, _Merlin forbid_, our most recent Tommy. "

At this point there was so much smoke in the room, Gus had reentered to open windows. Una was holed up in the bathrooms crying her eyes out. Rose had not made a single movement. The Head paused for a moment of deliberation before continuing.

"However, I'm _not_ most people, Weasley, so this misunderstood urchin thing won't work with me. I can see you don't feel a sliver of remorse for your actions, nor do I particularly care. But you're ambitious and I like that. You will train and study under me, and, further on, serve as my right hand and secret vessel of power. I will make you stronger than you could ever imagine. In turn you will help me achieve my subversive goals until I become the Minister of Magic. Is that understood?"

He had intended this information to be a shock for her: outrageous, exciting, scandalous, or at least eye-opening. Or perhaps there would be outrage for the depravity of his request and self-serving agenda, but there was none of that either. Here he was, offering the brat ultimate power as temptation and she hardly seemed interested! She returned only a hollow look.

Irritably he continued, "But that doesn't mean you can feel free to make yourself at home. Furthermore, I'm not your father and I have no interest in pretending to be so. You will address me as Sir or Head or nothing at all. As long as you are my ward, you will live by my rules and restrictions, which means no boys, no drinking, no communication with boys, no junk food, no _thinking_ about boys, and no magic without permission. Also, there will be no talking to reporters and boys of any kind and curfew is strictly 6 PM."

"Will I get to see him?"

The Head stared at her for a moment, in dismay.

"My brother. If I do this for you, will I get to see him?"

"If that's…all you want, I don't see why not."

"That's all I want."

* * *

Translation note:

_*Master doesn't pay me!_


	2. Him

_Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to the original author and her publishers. This fanfiction is for entertainment purposes only._

* * *

**II:**

**Him**

**Albus was nothing like his father.**

* * *

As I realized shortly afterwards, Rose Weasley was leaving out information. She wasn't telling me how her parents died, where her brother was, why her family didn't help her, the political climate of her setting. I was probably jumping ahead of myself so naturally I assumed these were pieces she was leaving out intentionally and would be explained in due time. Currently, there was a bigger query on the floor.

"So what was the deal with you and Albus?"

The old woman looked nostalgic for a moment.

"What do you know about Harry Potter, Mr. Walker?"

"Enough." I knew about the prophecy, the Great War, the Dark Lord, the whole saving-the-world bit.

"You should know then that Albus was _nothing_ like his father."

There was a brief silence.

"Yes, that much has been very clear."

"It wasn't his fault though."

"So it was your fault then."

"It's hard to pinpoint the blame on any one person for what happened with him, but yes, partly it may have been mine. There were others: his mother for instance, Scorpius, and then his brother, although Jamesy always tried his best, bless him. Most was his father's though."

"His father was dead at the time."

"Precisely."

"Where did it all go wrong then?"

"I wouldn't know. There was no one simple instance. Though I'm sure it started far before we even realized it."

"Did you love him?"

I could tell the abrupt query had come as a shock to her, but she quickly recovered and gave me a strained smile.

"Love is not an emotion easily associated with Albus."

"You didn't answer my question."

"He was my family. I cared for his well-being."

"That doesn't answer my question."

"His own mother despised him."

"You're avoiding the question."

"Then I have no broader explanation for you." She replied coldly, "You may assume what you wish about us."

I decided that I would. Then I asked my final question for the evening.

"Do you have any regrets about the way it ended with him?"

There was absolute silence.

"Good night, Mr. Walker."

* * *

I tapped the edge of the wardrobe twice and turned the knob like a combination lock. It opened it to reveal a fountain-like structure—a pensive. More specifically, the pensive of Albus Potter. Legend states that in his old home, he had this particular pensive tailored to his needs. That it contained not only his memories, but memories of those around him. And that these memories would be more than just faint recollections, but very vivid and intimate accounts that read like journal entries. The observer would be able to sense the emotions of many. I pondered why Albus would make his recollections so…intimate. In all the rubble and chaos and disorder, precisely what was he trying to preserve?

* * *

Harry smiled at his four-year-old son. "Albus, will you come with me please?"

Ginny shot her husband a curious look but said nothing as Albus stood up and obediently walked over. Gingerly reaching down, Harry picked up his son and held him in his arms. The thin-faced boy bore an even more perplexing likeness to the striking young man in such close proximity. "Albus and I'll be back in a bit, Gin."

Apparation. Together, boy and man burned through space and countless dimensions, miles in milliseconds, their grips tightening and loosening as they clung on to each other. Still, a seamless journey, for it was one that the bright-eyed boy had grown used to. It was only Albus that Harry would apparate with on these 'business' trips, for it was only Albus, calm and level-headed and highly intelligent, who possessed the extraordinary aptitude for reading his father, to the extent that not a single facial expression, variation in tone, or behavioral tick of his went by unnoticed. Infant Lily was fussy and an avid screamer, and James, though brave and well-intentioned, didn't have the head for it.

Thunder shook the heavens as they emerged from the midst of a dense, sight-blurring haze in the middle of nowhere. Albus watched his father point a wand toward a barren patch on the ground and mutter an incantation –with a swift, sudden rumble, from its place began suddenly rising a dilapidated shack-house with burnt panes and windows boarded from the inside.

Subtle folds had formed around Daddy's eyes, depicting distress. The small boy shot him an inquisitive look but knew better than to ask why. Most families have secrets, but the Potters were particularly notorious for their thickly coated web of lies. Even one as young as Albus understood that discretion was vital for maintaining secrecy. He was expected to share in his father's burden, whether or not he knew it, since one cannot tell what one does not fully understand.

_Loyalty_

What mattered most to Albus was that Daddy trusted him above all others. Years later he would see the fundamental error in his thinking.  
Standing outside the household, Harry put Albus down and told him what he always did:

"Stand by the door and do not, under _any_ circumstance, come inside."

As always, Albus gave a solemn nod and watched his father go through the doorway. Moments later, came the wretched sounds of screaming –long, guttural, pain-stricken shrieks. To drown out the awful noise, Albus clasped his hands over his ears, forcing every ounce of control he had over himself not to go inside. For it was his father whose screams rang alarmingly against his eardrums.

_Obedience_

_He'll come back. He wouldn't leave me like this. _Silent tears streamed down his small face. Minutes felt like hours dragging by as the dark-haired boy, with his eyes clenched shut, stood miserably, waiting for the end of his cruel and unusual torture. It was in these moments that Albus felt he truly hated his father.

_Resentment_

Still, Albus knew why it was him Daddy brought. James was strong and brave, but he couldn't harden his heart. Albus could. He could push his emotions aside and do the rational thing. Call it a talent. Call it a curse. Call it a trained instinct. He understood that in order to survive, he had to harden his heart. It would become part of a series of challenges his father put him through, indefinitely shaping the core of his personality.

_Self-preservation_

Years later, nightmares would haunt his sleep and he would _curse_ his father for making him so cold. Making him into a monster who thrived through cunning and manipulation, detesting intimacy. Who harbored malicious secrets. Who was swayed by neither friendship nor love.

But moments later, when Harry emerged well and alive, all feelings of anything but relief would be forgotten, and Albus would cling to his leg until he was picked up again.

Usually Albus was compliant enough to accept his father's following silence, but occasionally curiosity for the better of him.

"Did you kill him?"

Not an accusation but an inquiry. An innocent one.

"Do you really think your father could be a murderer, Albus?"

The boy thought for a moment before answering in a small voice, "Sometimes."

The ends of Harry's mouth curved downward. "Well I'll tell you. There's only one time you could say Daddy's taken a life and today wasn't it."

Albus looked equal parts scared and curious. Then, a hushed whisper: "I want to know when."

"Of course you do. You are my son after all." Harry shook his head, and then lowered his voice. Albus observed a pained expression flicker over his face.

"Know that there once was a Dark Lord. And that he was betrayed, cast aside, and destroyed by his own mantle of power. But know that there must always be a Dark Lord, one capable of unfathomable horrors. One who has been hurt in the heart and will hurt in return."

Albus buried his face into Harry's shoulder. "I fear, son, that history has a habit of repeating itself."

_Fear_

"Who will stop the new dark lords, Daddy?"

"My dear Albus," Harry sighed, running a hand over the frightened boy's head, "I won't be around forever."

* * *

He readjusted himself on the wooden stool, feeling like cattle about to be butchered in front of the mass of anxious eyes trained on him, hungrily waiting. Here was the momentous Sorting of Harry Potter's second son. Even at the age of eleven he knew exactly what was expected of him.

So he didn't just plead with the Sorting Hat –he begged. But apparently, it was through making exceptions for his family.

"Trust me Potter, I can read your heart." Replied the snide voice, repugnant with glee, "In it, I see neither your father's courage nor his well-intentioned character. I see…my, my, you're a slippery one aren't you? Deviant, lustfully aching to prove yourself and yet… let's just say I'd do you a disservice Potter, if I didn't put you in the right House."

Uncle Ron's words rang alarmingly in his head, pulsating in step with the frantic beating of his heart: _There's not a wizard that hadn't gone wrong that wasn't sorted in Slytherin. _

"Put me in Ravenclaw and I'll be the cleverest boy I can be, Hatty." He murmured, in a silky voice. "You know I have it in me."

The Sorting Hat gave a disgusted snort. "You want more than just cleverness, Potter. That you attempt to bribe me with false promises proves you truly belong with the serpents."

Please. Anything, anything but—

He winced as the Sorting Hat proclaimed, "SLYTHERIN!"

* * *

Albus knew from the very beginning that he wasn't like the others. That he was smarter, _better_. He absorbed all that he read—his mind was an engine, racing at a speed impossible to match. He excelled with a fluidness that left other high-achieving students like Rose in dismay. She would ache over every word, every sentence, over the constant hum of sleepless nights and blistering of fingers to achieve a similar level of excellence, yet words came to _him_ as if from an ethereal source. Line by line, with a flourish of the pen, he would gain momentum, his fingertips feverishly trying to capture the speed of his racing mind.

Rose and Albus had started their magical education together far before Hogwarts. They had pored through the same books since they could read, practicing spells in the pitch of night with their parents' wands. They dabbled in potions, creating concoctions from the simplest ingredients they could find. It was more than just living up to their potential. It was desire to be more than they had been meant for. Children of the Golden Trio—in a sense they had their lives already defined for them. But this, _this_ was rebellion at its finest. It was raw and unprecedented ambition, egging them to achieve and compete with each other, to see who could master the hardest charm, the most complex potions.

Nothing was off-limits.

Schooling tamed Rose, but it left Albus to wrestle with a problem he had never encountered before: boredom. Classes were juvenile at best and teachers easy to manipulate—as he had both charm and intelligence on his side. Nevertheless he found himself at odds with the other students.

Three insufferable Sixth Years pinned him to the ground in a humiliating manner. His shirt torn from clawing, lip bleeding, torso aching from the countless kicks-meanwhile his bladder was bursting for release. They had forced a liter of fluid down his throat, holding his mouth open with their mangy hands. His feeble attempts to dismember their fingers resulted in a swift kick to the groin.

Then, after a painful three hours, it happened. The boys cackled viciously at his quivering chin, widening eyes, as a wet patch formed in the front of his pants.

The boys, sniggering, kicked him several more times for good measure and stalked away.

Albus did not scream. He did not cry. Instead, he remained on the ground, contemplating his weakness. How disgusting. His primal urges had betrayed him in front of those—those _imbeciles_. No, it was worse than that. His body had committed _anarchy_, left him without any defense. His vision blurred. He couldn't even raise himself. He was entirely and indefinitely alone.

But not for long.

"Are you ok?"

He shook himself into consciousness, glancing up to meet a blond mess of hair with startling grey eyes, mouth agape.

"Bloody hell, Potter, what happened to you? Don't tell me you had a row with the Whomping Willow. _Again. _"

A groan escaped his lips. It was the resident Slytherin nuisance. The other Second Years feared and despised Albus, but he was incessantly challenging his presence, being a smartass.

"Leave it Malfoy. It's fine."

"Well whoever it was, they did you up pretty good this time. I bet you can't even stand."

"I said I'm fine! Just go away!"

The brows drew up. "Prove it."

Albus lifted his torso carefully, trying to use the wall to steady himself, but his knees gave out from under him and he collapsed. After several failed attempts and falling pitifully on his butt, he looked up to find the curious extension of a hand. He studied it disdainfully.

"I didn't ask for your help, Malfoy."

"Shut up and take my hand…._Potter_. And hurry up before someone turns the corner and sees us."

This was an imperative moment for Albus, for he knew taking the hand meant admitting vulnerability. True perfection was unattainable but the impression of it depended upon covertly hiding one's weaknesses. Once he took this hand, he would leaving himself entirely open, at the mercy of something he couldn't control.

In the end Albus took the hand and Scorpius's face flickered with an uncontrolled smile that he quickly drew back into a sneer. He lifted Albus up and pulled the injured boy's arm around his shoulder, helping him limp toward the Hospital Wing.

"Hey Potter, guess what…you smell like piss."

"Shut up, Malfoy."

* * *

They quickly went from _Potter_ and _Malfoy_ to Albus and Scorp. It was unexpected in the same way it was unnatural. How could the heir of the most notorious ex-Death Eater family in the Wizarding World, get on so well with the Chosen One's youngest son?

Scorpius could not explain it—Albus Potter was demanding, selfish, and positively corrupt— yet his friendship enticed him all the same.

Perhaps it was because Scorpius had grown bored with his life: only child, coddled at birth, born into a cradle of wealth. Anyone was liable to take advantage of his wealth and person. His good looks and skill were testament to his family name, and yet, nothing in his life had ever truly been his. And then there was Albus, with every intention to kick his arse –an Ice Prince with even bigger shoes to fill, brilliant as _hell_, and nothing to gain from something as superfluous as friendship. Excitement. Rebellion. Intrigue. Danger. And of course, precisely what Scorpius had wanted—a break from the expectedness of his life.

They fell to each other like magnets.

As if intelligence alone wasn't enough for a power complex, over the years Albus became what some would call handsome. In an artistic sense Scorpius could admit he was aesthetically pleasing. Aside from the common features— dark hair, medium stature, pale green eyes— Albus had a distinct, and yet deliberate way of holding himself, with poised shoulders and a firm brow that furrowed when provoked —and a tilted smile that, in the rare instance he _did_ smile, always bordered on the enigmatic.

He came to know the elusive raven-haired boy better than anyone, but the privilege came with a price. It became an unspoken truth—that Scorpius was to answer his every call, entertain every detention with him, transcend rule and reason in the pursuit of their joint endeavors. In front of classmates, Albus was able to degrade his social dignity with a few measly words:

"Come here, Malfoy."

Scorpius would stop what he was doing and rush after him. No doubt _Potter_ was infuriatingly pleased with this result. He had finally gained what he had wanted all along: a loyal pureblood dog. Within months, and the eventual transcendence of years, he came to know, judge, and critically presume every minor detail about Scorpius. From a single look Albus could deduce which girl he liked to the most recent fear he harbored (though the two usually coincided). He imposed his will on every decision Scorpius would make, tying his goals and aspirations inevitably with his agendas. A possessive egomaniac to whom nothing was off limits. Despite this level of disclosure, their duality remained skewed, for while one was an open book, the other controlled precisely what was known about him. The fact Albus could manipulate Scorpius's observations, feelings, and deductions of him frightened the blond. In three years, Scorpius learned only three solid things about his friend:

1. Magic was his only obsession. No amount of girls or quidditch or academic success could compare, though he easily exceled amongst all three.  
2. Albus disliked his family and wasn't clear on how he felt about his father. Most of his cousins openly taunted him for being snake. Rose was the sole exception.  
3. Winning was everything to Albus. And he would go to great lengths to maintain his superiority.

* * *

Fourth Year. Hogwarts. Yule Ball.

A tall, brazen silhouette stood in proximity. Platinum Blond hair. Cold grey eyes. Dark protruding brows coupled with square shoulders gave him a tight, masculine expression of confidence, often attracting more admirers than he could handle. Right now however, Scorpius Malfoy had no admirers and that expression was slowly waning into an irritable grimace.

He abhorred arbitrary events such as dances, which, as it seemed, were only held to humiliate Fourth Year boys such as himself. He had been shot in the eye by an ice cube (stupid house elf), sent his date crying back to her dorm, conned out of his entire allowance by Albus in poker, and was currently being approached by that annoying Rose Weasley.

"Hey Malfo-"

"I haven't seen Albus. Go away."

Over the years they had been at odds with each other. Scorpius could admit it was mostly his fault—he had an inexplicable tendency to say something revolting and offensive whenever he opened his mouth around her, but then again, _she_ never did anything but inflame the issue.

The ginger crossed her arms and gave an aggravated groan.

"Merlin, that's not what I was going to ask—"

"That's what you usually ask," he said accusingly. "And I'm telling you that he didn't do it this time. I was _there! _"

It wasn't _his_ fault she had gotten unfairly better-looking over the years, or that he had the communication skills of a troll. It wasn't _his_ fault he pelleted her with gobstones every Valentine's Day and inadvertently sent her to the hospital wing. He couldn't control what his body did—damn it, he was _fifteen_!

"Calm down you prick. I just came to tell that you were looking nice tonight, for a change."

Scorpius could sense the shift in her tone with this unexpected compliment and his body tightened. Then he opened his mouth.

"Wish I could say the same about you."

Damn it.

She flushed bright pink, and not the pretty one either. The angry one.

"You—you're a sodding pig, Malfoy. And I don't care what you think. It's not like I was going to ask you to dance!"

"Well… good," He quickly folded his arms, "I wouldn't have said yes anyway."

"Good! I wouldn't want you to!"

"Fine!"

"Fine!"

Rose stormed away in a huff, convinced that her father had always been right. Boys were stupid and Malfoy was a mentally repressed, snot-nosed brat with sociopathic tendencies. He couldn't even take a compliment from her! No wonder she ended up in the hospital wing every Valentine's day. It was obvious that he hated her and-

"I leave you two for ten minutes and you're at each other's throats." A vindictive voice chuckled, startling and drawing an arm around her shoulder.

"He started it, Al. He always starts it."

"You know he can't help it, Rosie. It's those hormones of his, always fluctuating with you around. Especially tonight when you're looking so extraordinarily pretty."

She scoffed as the distinct smell of his cologne wafted past her nose. Albus was a charmer—he could run his fingers through the heart-strings of any being he wanted: skillfully, confidently, and as always, dispassionately. And there was always a catch.

"All right, save the tricks and tell me what you want this time."

The deferential smile flickered for a second. "You think I'm being insincere?"

Rose was certain he wouldn't know sincerity if it hit him in the face.

"I don't want to play games, Albus."

"A dance, then? I wasn't paying attention during instruction. You can teach me."

The whole idea was ridiculous. It wasn't as if Albus had any shortage of willing partners to resort to asking his cousin. And of course he didn't care about the rumors. All that mattered was that Scorpius was shooting daggers into the back of his skull and Rose was too preoccupied to drift away. Only Albus could dance with his own cousin and no one would think it strange. Only Rose would bother to entertain such eccentric mannerisms.

Because, in the end, he wasn't just her cousin but her friend. He was the only one who knew her despair, and he knew it. Resting her chin on his shoulder, she let her mind wander in a peace-less silence.

"Still oogling Malfoy over my shoulder, Rosie? How…._predictable. _"

"Don't presume you know what's on my mind."

"We both know what's on your mind," He murmured. What was always on her mind, in the dead of night and the hum of class. What kept her in the library, away from the desire of friends and dating and parties every weekend. He had known her since birth, seen her at every turn of her life— and she was too damn predictable. As if Albus couldn't see the only thing her fragile little world existed around.

"Hugo's going to be fine at the hospital."

"He's dying, Al." Rose was glad he couldn't see the swelling of her eyes. "They admitted him yesterday. They said he's dying and there's nothing I can do about it."

"People die, Rose."

"Shut up."

"And if I told you we could change that, you wouldn't listen to me."

Rose halted mid-step. They had had this discussion before, over the boiling of illegal potions and practice duels in the Forbidden forest. Between heated arguments about the modern applications of alchemy and Flamelian philosophy and dark texts.

She pulled away, studying him closely. "Don't screw with me, Albus."

"It's not a joke. I've been—listen, I've been doing some research on the properties of the resurrection stone…I think I'm onto something. I'll have you look at my dad's old texts on it later."

Rose knew better to be swayed by his niceties. Albus was like a sugar-coated poison bomb, ready to go off at any moment.

"Why are you doing this?"

His eyes narrowed, all semblance of affection lost. "Damn it Rose, you don't think I'd be the slightest bit interested in the prospect of revitalization?

"I know you Albus," She hissed, lowering her voice so no one could hear her, "You've been practicing the Unforgivables on spiders since Second Year. You've invented a potion to burn the insides of animals without leaving a trace. You're not interested in _saving_ lives. This is a purely Rose-centric plot. So I'll ask you again, _what's the catch? _"

His expression stiffened, "Fame, mostly. Conquering death. It's a nice starting point."

"Don't lie, asshole. You need a test subject." She snarled.

"And you're running out of options, missy." He bit back derisively, "Your brother's going to die one of these days and you're going to wish you were ready. You _need_ me."

"Sounds like you need me more."

"Well that's always been the case, Rosie."

She was far too pissed to acknowledge the sudden tenderness in his tone. He had crossed a line. This time she wouldn't forgive him. This time she actually meant it.

* * *

"The funeral of Harry J. Potter, Ronald B. Weasley, and Hermione J. Weasley took place the summer after your Fourth and last year of schooling." I read off my notes, "It was a fire wasn't it?"

"That was the official story." Rose replied vaguely.

"So you and Albus didn't believe it."

She scoffed, "We knew our parents, Mr. Walker. Do you think the Golden Trio, who vanquished the _Dark Lord_, could just die in a simple fire? Something was obviously off, and of course the how didn't matter as much as the _why. _"

* * *

James had managed their mum—he had a soft sincerity that Albus couldn't quite replicate. Albus had held inconsolable Lily until she fell asleep and carried her to bed.

Now he sat quietly in his living room observing the crackling fire. The throbbing heaviness in the pit of his stomach had grown. He could not explain what it was—only that it felt like his lung had been punctured. He had lost an arm, a leg, an extension of himself had been removed.

His father was dead.

_People die. _

But still, this wasn't anyone they were talking about. Harry Potter wasn't _people_ — sometimes Albus didn't even believe he was human. So how could he drop at the simple turn of fate? No, it was too sudden, too chaotic, too unexpected. The laws of nature didn't apply to Dad!

Something was _wrong. _

James was crying. Maybe he should've cried too. Except that he couldn't. There was a weakness in all the tears, the pitiful nose running, lip quivering, the uncontrolled emotion, that disgusted him. It was a defeat he would not admit. Albus didn't cry when he broke his leg. Albus didn't cry when he was bullied mercilessly in school.  
Albus wouldn't cry when his father died.

This was indefinitely also his father's fault.

For the first time in a long time, he could not understand himself. His hands were shaking, but how he felt did not match how he _should've. _What was the matter with him? Was he so far gone that he couldn't even grieve for his father?

His fists coiled. Anger—no, rage _burned_ inside him. He had done everything, hadn't he? He had become precisely what his father had wanted him to. He had endured every lesson, every training, every hardship imposed upon him, as obediently as any son could. Hell, he had _worshiped_ the man. He had repressed every doubt, every grievance, every primal urge and for what? What had been the point of it all?

With his father dead, how would he ever know what he was meant to do?

"Albus?"

It was Rose, eyes puffy from crying. Albus ushered her beside him and for a moment there were no words as he squeezed her hand, or she silently sobbed on his shoulder. But even Rose could see there was something different in Albus that day—he had the same objective stare, but there was a tired, hollow quality in his eyes, one Rose would mistake for grief. It would take her years to figure out its true manifest.

"We don't have to talk about it, Al."

"You clearly want to."

There was silence.

"Only if you do too."

He bit the top of his lip, staring into the fire. "You can sense what's wrong here, can't you?"

Rose wiped her eyes. "Yes but why does it matter? They're dead—they left us, _me_, all alone." A tremor in her voice emerged, "I don't know what Hugo and I are going to do, Albus. I don't know what I'll do if he—"

"You'll be fine, Rose. You're brave, clever, and if you marry Malfoy, you'll be loaded for life. You'll survive."

His sardonic remark only made more tears build in her eyes. She wasn't worried about herself! Sure, her life was falling apart at the seams, but her mum and dad had told her, _always told her_, to look after her brother. "He's counting on you," Dad would say, but it always seemed as if she was the one that needed him more. It was an emotional dependency. Rose always needed others more than they needed her.

"What about you, Al?" She murmured, at the strained tightening of his brow.

His bottom lip trembled uncharacteristically and he spoke in a strange murmur.

"Can I ask you something, Rose? Do…do you think there's hope for me?"

"I don't understand."

He grabbed her by the shoulders, tightly, painfully, a feverish look in his eyes, "If I told you I was happy my dad was dead, even _relieved_, would you think there was hope for me?"

She slapped him hard across the face, frightening both of them.

"How could you-you don't mean that! This isn't the time for jokes!" She seethed, "Damn you, Albus! Damn you! You loved your dad! We all did!"

"You don't _know_ what he did to me!" He hissed, clutching his injured face.

He watched in dismay as Rose took a step back, her shoulders quivering—perhaps she had at last seen him for what he was. The unhinging fault in the essence of his character. The growing speck of darkness in the pool of white. But then her hand was clasped over her widening mouth, and she uttered a shaky apology. Despite what he had said, she couldn't believe she had hurt him.

"_Merlin_ … I'm s-so sorry, Al. I didn't mean-"

"It's fine." His voice was cold, so to compensate he stepped toward her and kissed her forehead as well. "Goodnight, Rosie."

As he walked away, Rose tried not to go after him. She wanted to tell him that no matter what they would be family, so she would always love him. She would even admit she considered him her brother. He was already her closest friend. But such endearing words weren't easy to say to someone like Albus.

There was no guarantee he would return them.

"_Al…_" Her voice was barely above a whisper. He turned around, regarding her with his characteristic coldness. Rose summoned the courage to speak her mind, to say what had been on there for a while.

"I've changed my mind. Show me those notes on the resurrection stone."


	3. Rupture

_Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to the original author and her publishers. This fanfiction is for entertainment purposes only._

* * *

**III:**

**Rupture**

**Dark magic is attempted, discovered, and Hugo is cured. In the midst of it, an old alliance crumbles. Albus startles even himself. Rose seeks to move on with her life.**

* * *

Quite literally, the only thing separating me from Prisoner 11—_Rose_, were the bars. For the sake of sating my curiosity, I had moved my chair closer, and then closer again, until we had become nothing less than chatting acquaintances out for tea in the afternoon (though, admittedly, she could only move so far with the chains around her ankles). Her congenial manner may have drawn me in, but it was her voice—rich and crackling with emotion—that kept me firmly attached to the seat of my chair.

"Why did you change your mind?"

"Desperation, Mr. Walker, has been the source of most of my mistakes as you will see. Though certainly not all." She turned toward me with the most blazing look in her eyes. "Tell me this— with your parents dead and brother dying, wouldn't you feel the world had betrayed you? Wouldn't you want to right the wrongs inflicted in your life?"

"I suppose I would."

"There is no _supposing_ here, Mr. Walker. You see it is all relative. Wrong and right. Good and evil. Dark magic and light magic and blue magic and purple magic—none of it makes any damn difference. Everything that happened, every precise death, every failure, every miscalculation up until the war, was inevitable from the beginning." She spoke with conviction, "You'll see, Mr. Walker, there was only one way any of this could've ended, and that is with me sitting here speaking with you."

* * *

Rose and Albus had thrown themselves into research with a zeal unlike before, one that crossed from order into obsession, replacing principle with uncontrolled passion—all the while eager to outdo the other. These were strange moments of unity, however fleeting and unstable, that Rose would admit she enjoyed.

Recently washed cauldrons were placed upturned on work tables, alongside jars and bottles of miscellaneous items. Toadstools, nettles, Pig bladders, cow eyes, assorted herbs and enchanted waters. Reference books laid haphazardly open all over the floor. And in the midst of it was a boiling cauldron, flowing from the rim while the surrounding fluids were carelessly cleaned by charmed mops.

"Al…we need fewer asphodel leaves. The poison can be lethal in large doses—"

"There won't be a large dose," He grumbled irritably, counting the remaining toadstools with decent spores to put into the cauldron. Dropping them in, he stirred clockwise twice, then counterclockwise until a vat of green had formed. "And besides, we'll counteract it with the flobberworms—_not those, dimwit_, the minced ones by the wormwood."

Rose gnashed her teeth, dropping the flobberworms into the cauldron.

"If you read ever Phyllid Spore like you were supposed to, you'd know it would take a wagonload of these damned things to counter the asphodel poison." She snorted. "…pompous ass."

"Spore was a fool who didn't know his grundywood from his gillyweed," He jeered, his mouth twisted into an acidic smile, "And knowing more than you doesn't make me a pompous ass, dearest Rose. It simply makes me _better_."

She met his smugness with a petulant look.

"If you're so much better than me, then explain why you need my help?"

"In retrospect, I daresy you need _my_ help."

"When have I ever needed you asshole?"

"More juvenile name calling? My, my, it's as if you're trying to hurt my feelings, cousin."

"You don't have feelings, Al."

The boy turned his back toward, to silently chop the geranium roots. Several moments later he spoke through the methodical swishing of the knife.

"You're right, I don't really need you. I guess it's more of a preference."

Rose stared at the back of him contemplatively. Her cousin had his peculiarities, but nothing was as strange as how he singled her out, like she was special or different. Albus didn't care for company and he didn't care for family, so it was disconcerting how he refused to work in class with anyone but her (Scorpius had a habit of inadvertently blowing up every potion he made). Or that he refused to dance with anyone else at the Yule ball except her. Or that he somehow always managed to jeopardize every possible friendly or romantic relationship she had, either by blackmail, bribery, or fatal injury of the other party. At times, it felt as though he was trying to keep her as isolated as possible. There were rumors of course, the usual kind, those that misinterpreted this strange and possessive attachment he had with his cousin as inappropriate, but Rose knew the real reason was far more… childish.

Rose was the only one who could keep his pace. And Albus just didn't like sharing.

Selfish ass.

He was a better, stronger, smarter wizard than her, and she envied that. Natural ability oftentimes made him conceited and reckless, creating hostile tension between them. Still though, Albus couldn't deny that she was pretty close behind him in every regard. Closest anyone ever got to him, especially in potion-making where even Slughorn proclaimed they were neck to neck.

So this working together business was mutually advantageous. They would bounce ideas off one another, practicing and planning, screwing up heedlessly and then reverting back to the idea board. At the same time competing and yet foolishly trying to impress one another. Rose read _Secrets of the Darkest Art_ in an hour. Albus read all the works of Argo Pyrites. Albus woke up at four to resume working. Rose stayed up all night testing enchantments and potion combinations. Rose found all herbs possibly related to revitalization. Albus surprised her with a rare vial of phoenix blood.

"How did you find _that_?"

He merely shook his head, "Unnecessary details. But do you know what's so fascinating about a phoenix?"

"Well, it regenerates almost instantly when it dies."

"Aside from that Rosie, it is the _only_ creature in existence to be able to do so."

"Lot good that's done it." She snorted. The past thirty years had reduced the phoenix population to under a hundred. The more powerful its magical healing properties were discovered to be, the more people savagely sought it.

Albus held the vial between his thumb and forefinger, studying it circumspectly. "The only creature in the world with the power to immortality… on the verge of dying out. Funny how things work out, isn't it?"

* * *

After her parents' deaths, Rose resided with the Potters—all of which, as it seemed, had begun to crumble within themselves. Ginny, long-faced and sallow skinned, slowly deteriorated into an alcoholic while James, in order to cope with his missing father figure, developed a new-found love for authority. Lily erupted in fits of anger and ran away once a week—only to be found camped at a friend's place and the occasional disgusting boyfriend's. James and Lily argued. James and Ginny argued. The only person James didn't yell at was Albus, who was careful never to get caught doing anything wrong.

Hugo remained at the hospital growing precariously feebler by the day. Rose would visit him often.

Having awoken from a nap, a grin flitted across his face as she stepped through the doorway.

"I brought you something."

"You didn't have to."

"Shut up."

She dropped a badly wrapped package into his lap and threw her arms around his neck, leaning in to kiss his cheek, "Happy Birthday."

The recently turned thirteen-year old rubbed the display of affection from his face, his cheeks heating up, (Rose always had to embarrass him. What if one of the healers saw? ) and then turned his attention to the present.

"Guess you didn't have wrapping paper at the house, eh Rosie?"

"Or tape. Or scissors."

"Or aesthetic talent." He teased.

The ends of her lips curved as she playfully shoved him. "Open it already."

Hugo took a deliberately long time contemplating the strange package. He held it close to his ear, rattled it, threw it in the air, and smelled it carefully. I bet it's one of those pie-in-the-face machine thingies, right Rosie? Bet you've got a timer on it. You'd do that. Or, oh, oh! It's a pygmy puff, isn't it? _It's not a pygmy puff, Hugo. _Better not be. It better not be underwear either. If it's underwear I'm not opening it. _Do I look like Nana Molly to you? _I give up…is it edible? _Yes, Hugo it's an edible pygmy puff in a pair of bloomers ready to splatter you in the face with pie. _Sweet Merlin, that's brilliant—how did you know I wanted that?

He plowed through the bad wrapping and unraveled the Chudley Cannon's hat he'd been wanting for a while, along with a box of chocolates. He faked a look of disappointment.

"I thought you were serious about the pygmy puff."

She took the hat and yanked it on his head, brushing his hair out of his eyes. Her hand lingered for a moment on his face. Hugo was weak and scrawny-looking, with large blue eyes and soft babyish features. He had long lashes, wild muddy curls like their mother, and a permanent expression of bewilderment etched on his face. Despite all that, there was a weighing sadness in his character—the countless pain potions, the bedridden lifetime, the ticking clock—that became prominent when he stopped smiling. Though her brother was good at pretending, for her sake.

She would kiss his forehead and kiss his face countless times, and she would hold him tightly, and sometimes when she fell asleep next to him on the cot he could hear her wracking sobs, reliving their parents' deaths. Her arm would circle around his waist tightly, squeezing him past the point of comfort, and she would make absurd promises about never letting anything happen to him.

Unlike his delusional sister, who had her head suspended in a daydream that he endearingly referred to as 'Roseland', Hugo was more rational, level-headed, accepting of reality—the simple truth was that he knew he wouldn't live past his fourteenth birthday. He had this all his life. What he didn't know was the lengths his sister would go to keep him alive.

* * *

The problem with testing a concoction intended for revitalization was finding a dead test subject. Rose stood tentatively holding her wand toward a mass of abnormally large spiders, her face pinched from the heaviness of her conscience

"I can't, Al."

"You can." The silky voice murmured from behind, grazing against her ear. "Everyone's killed spiders."

"This is different. I've never….I can't."

"It's easy." His hand wrapped hers over her wand, more gripping than comfortable. "No blood, no pain...some might say it's a more merciful death…now if you just relax and—"

"Let go." She ordered. Dabbling in dark magic was one thing but using the Unforgivables was a step too far, even for her.

"They're _spiders_, Rose. No one's committing mass murder here." He spoke with an air of impatience. "It will make potion testing much easier if you learn to do these things."

"I don't see why you can't just do it."

"Because it's too damn easy."

"Oh shut up."

"You shut up. Now stop acting like a coward and do it."

She yanked her arm away and spun toward him, wand threateningly at his chin.

"You listen to me, now—I'm not _scared_. The difference is in choice. We're not all born with shaky morals."

"You presume I was born with any."

"Be that as it may, I could use the spell if I wanted to."

A reserved smile seeped through his handsome features, his eyes flashing intently. "And there's nothing I can do to change your mind?"

"No tricks." She glowered, "I've known you since you were in diapers, and trust me when I say there's no trick I haven't seen. There's nothing you can do that I bloody well can't counter!"

"Are you certain of that? Are you truly aware of what I'm capable of?" He smirked, taking one more step towards her. They stood face to face, brow to brow, and in her peripheral Rose could see his hand was inching toward the wand in his back pocket. In every practice duel they had Albus threw an unexpected first hex, but if she kept eye contact, she could catch him.

"Assumptions are a dangerous thing to make, Rose. You assume you know everything about me. You assume I'm going to attack you the same way I always do. And you assume I'm as much scared of you as you are of me."

"I'm not…I'm not scared of you."

"And why not?" His eyes flickered dangerously, but the moment of anger was gone before Rose could see it. Suppressed. Discarded.

She had seen the way other kids had begun to act around Albus at school. How underclassmen would duck their heads when they walked past him. How his Slytherin posse trailed behind him, Can I get you a snack, Potter? Shall I serve your detentions? Oh, Potter, would you like me to make a complete fool of myself for your amusement? Malfoy was a more brazen being, but even he couldn't keep her cousin in check. The worst of it were the girls who threw themselves at his feet, pining and becoming expectedly heartbroken when he didn't turn around to remember their names.

There was no getting around it: Albus had an unnatural amount of control over others. He didn't have friends. He had tools, grunts, and disposable napkins. A boy with a brilliant, beautiful, amazing mind but an asshole, nonetheless.

"Don't bother starting something." She warned, "I beat you in the last duel."

His face was a strange mix between humor and scorn, "I won't always go that easy on you."

"You weren't—"

"_Expelliarmus_."

In a flash of light he had her disarmed, her wand sent flying. As she leapt sideways to catch it he blasted her backwards with a freezing enchantment.

With her body rendered immovable, she laid in utter surprise at his reflexes. Albus had never attacked with such speed before. Had he always been holding back? She watched in dismay as he approached, blocking the last rays of sunlight, standing so that his darkened silhouette towered menacingly over hers.

"That wasn't fair."

He tilted his head at her, his green eyes glinting derisively.

"There you go assuming again. You see I never _intend_ to fight fair, Rose. Fairness implies that we are equal to begin with, which we're clearly not." The ends of his lips curved, "So why would I limit myself? Why shouldn't I use my intellect to outsmart you? Don't you see how _easy_ it is for me?"

"All I see is a boy with dirty tricks," She said scathingly.

"And all I see is a girl with _no_ tricks."

With a contemptuous glare, he pointed his wand sideways at the line of spiders trailing across the ground, uttering the forbidden words without any trace of emotion.

_Aveda Kedavra. _

The following flash of green reflected in her horror-stricken eyes and instantaneously the spiders were as immoveable as her. Rose could feel the air deflate from her lungs.

The smug coldness from his gaze seemed to puncture her skin. "Now say it." He ordered, "That I'm better than you."

"You're better than me." She echoed.

Her voice was faint, lacking the emotion and conviction he had craved. Albus felt strangely dissatisfied. Thrown by his own lack of response, he slowly regressed a few steps, stone-faced —as if to distance himself from his target. His flesh and blood. Why was he doing this? What was the matter with him? Several times he blinked, watching her tremble as the freezing enchantment wore off, _just watching_, trying to sort it all out.

Upon the sight of her tears, he quickly reverted tactics.

"I'm so sorry—I don't know why I did that." He moved towards her as she stood up, instinctively as predator to prey, aware of every vital discrepancy—her panicking heart-rate, her widening eyes, the doe-eyed expression of fear, yes, _fear_, that flitted across her impulse driven face. He wrapped his arms around her flinching body, pulling her close. Like a child escaping out of a burning house, he would grab whatever he could.

"There, there." He murmured into her ear, "They're just spiders. Now we'll test the potions on them."

His fingers stroked her hair, lovingly.

"…You know I'd never even _think_ of hurting you."

His mouth grazed her forehead, lingering a hair's breadth away.

"…I want us to be on the same side. I wanted to show you what we have to do to save your Hugo."

As his hands cupped her face, he held an expression of ironclad earnestness.

"…Can't you see we want the same things?"

He could see the myriad of emotions flicker across her face, processing which one to settle on. Nonetheless, her voice came out as a plea. "How can I trust you when you're always lying to me?"

He observed her demurely from underneath his lashes.

"I won't blame you if you hate me, Rosie."

Now her expression would melt.

"Oh Al, I couldn't hate you."

_Of course not._

He embraced her again, feeling her pulse slow, her body relax. Excellent. She was already caving in— her mind just didn't know it. She had forgiven him as she always did and now they would revert to normalcy, at least what _was_ normalcy for them. But this meant he would have to tread carefully in her good graces for a while, keeping himself firmly planted between trusted friend and adoring brother.

But this time was different for Rose, a seed had been planted in her head, sown and lain to fertilize—enrapturing her mind in a web of sorts. It was disturbing how easy it had been for him to commit such a destructive act. She told herself that webs could be cleaned, but it wasn't about just the spiders, you see. It was so much more than just spiders.

It had been easy to forgive him. Rose always forgave him.

But forgetting was dangerous.

A part of her held out, because until then she had considered them one of the same. Equals, with a shared and mutually tortured childhood. Albus knew of her pain, whether or not he truly understood it. And though Rose may not have known what had happened between him and his father, she still gave him an _enormous_ amount of leeway for it. He was an arrogant and distrustful ass, but so tantalizingly close to a sibling she had not been able to see him as anything otherwise.

Until now

When their potion didn't work, Rose detached herself from Albus, unknowing to him, and resumed a private line of inquiry. She reverted towards the fundamentals of spell-making, Ancient Runes and Latin texts, the sort of things that were so engraved in the process that people hardly gave them a second thought.

The philosophy behind a spell was that it was based on the principle of _something_, for _something_. Every action, manipulation of condition, would affect universal sphere of energy. Some spells could be personalized. For instance, the Unforgivables—the Cruciatis curse, the torturing spell, required a significant amount of malicious energy and evil intent on the user's part, without which the spell fell flat. The Imperious curse took the will of the person inflicted upon: a sacrifice, and in turn, gave control. And of course, the killing curse reflected the most fundamental principle of sacrifice—you took a life in exchange for the person's death.

Following torturous weeks of research, she deduced a frightening yet plausible method to reverse the principle of death, but it was crass, risky, and not testable on spiders in the slightest. It would take a catalyst source of energy to jumpstart, lightning perhaps. She would wait for a thunderstorm, take her brother off the oxygen tanks and out to the woods, and of course, not give any indication to her _dear cousin_ that she had figured it out.

She had figured out the secret of revitalization but at a price—and there was danger in such knowledge.

* * *

_Prophet Headline: Fifteen-Year Old Prodigy Revives Dead Brother Using New Dark Magic_

Bloodshot eyes glazed the headline, the corners of his mouth twitching. The handsome porcelain features were so etched so tightly that Albus looked unnatural. Anger radiated from his essence as his photographic memory scanned every instance for a hint, any hint, of such a cold betrayal.

No one got the chance to betray Albus. He betrayed them first. He destroyed anyone who even gave him a whiff of betrayal. But Rose, who he been willing to share information with, work with—he had been _lenient_ with her. He allowed her close. He was soft-tempered, and patient, and brotherly. He did not know why this was so.

All he knew now was that it had been a mistake.

Suddenly, the silence was too much in the room and he slammed his fists on the side table, knocking over papers, breaking glass, and startling his owl, Dudley. He howled alongside the owl as the sharp edges penetrated the flesh of his hand. While he tended to them, the insolent, repulsive creature began making noise, ruffling its feathers and rattling against the cage. Albus violently grabbed the owl by the neck and shoved it out the window.

"Get out!" he snapped, slamming the window shut.

_Rose,  
What happened? Are you ok? How's Hugo?  
-Al_

Rose,  
How did it happen? What did you do?  
-Al

Prophet Headline: Fifteen-year old Prodigy Facing Time in Azkaban

Rose,  
I miss you. Talk to me.  
-A

Rose,  
I'm worried about you.  
-Al

Prophet Headline: Head Auror Adopts Fifteen-Year Old Prodigy, Refuses Interviews

Rose,  
I want to talk. Let's meet.  
-Al

Rose,  
Damn it. Don't do this. Talk to me.  
-Al

Rose,  
We're better than this.  
-Al

"So, no reply huh?"

Albus scowled at Scorpius, who had been snooping over his shoulder a moment prior and now stood on the other side of the room, casually glancing through his other letters.

"Howler, howler, howler –Merlin, _Potter_, how many people did you piss off this week?"

Albus didn't bat an eyelid. "Put all the letters from my mum in the bin."

Although the shrieking red tapered letters were a bit more difficult to dispose of, requiring an extensive number of anti-opening jinxes, Scorpius managed to get rid of them all, shoving them into a metal container and kicking the lid shut. However, the unresolved curiosity in the room was stifling.

"Speaking of your cousin—"

"I don't believe we were."

"—is she ok or not?"

Albus glanced up to meet a startlingly solemn expression on his friend's face. His mouth curved in amusement.

"You seem awfully concerned, Scorp. Is something the matter?"

"I'm indifferently curious."

"You can't be both."

Scorpius avoided his wry half-grin for a brief moment, studying the drapes.

"Well aren't you worried about her too?"

"I'm her cousin. I have to be."

"Bullshit. You're not sentimental about family, _Potter_." Came the usual sneer.

"And you're not sentimental about Rose, _Malfoy_, but here we are now, having this roundabout discussion."

They glared at each other, alpha male to alpha male. A faint blush shaded the blond's face, not from anger but embarrassment. Upon noticing this, Albus subsided first, and spoke with a loud yawn. He kept his tone casual and even.

"She doesn't want to see _me_, Scorp. She said nothing about you."

"It's usually in the subtext," Scorpius swallowed uncomfortably, "And anyway, it would just be strange without you… She'll kick me. She'll throw things at me."

"It's not as if you deserve anything less."

"Maybe my expectations have changed."

There was a pause.

"Since when?" Albus inquired, brows raised.

"A year."

"She's been gone for a year."

"Well maybe two years… Don't look at me like that, Potter. I don't have to explain myself to _you_."

"You most certainly do not."

"You're mocking me."

"I most certainly am not."

"_Stop that. _"

"My, my, you're blushing. I didn't know Malfoys could anything besides sneer."

"You're the worst person in humanity."

Albus gave him a sly look. "You have my permission."

"I wasn't asking for your permission, _Potter. _"

"Yes you were, why else would you bring it up?"

Another pause.

"So what do you think, then?" Scorpius was looking at him, a half-eaten, desperate look on his face. It was more than a question, it was demanding a prediction. No one in the world knew Rose better than Albus.

"I mean…I'm not exactly her favorite person."

Albus observed the blond with an intrigued expression, a smile snaking across his face. The good thing about Scorpius was that he didn't keep secrets.

"You could be."

* * *

Rose lied in the vicinity of her new room, not sleeping but thinking, all the while ignoring the two house elves yelling outside the door. Adjusting to her new life had tumultuous and physically straining.

_The Head stared callously down at her. "Get up Weasley. I didn't order you to stop running."_

"I… can't," She gasped, lying with her cheek against the cold, hard cement as tears of exhaustion rolled down her face. He walked over and pressed down on her limp hand until she cried out in pain.

"Stop… Stop."

Her pleas were weak and her eyes were beginning to close. Inconsiderate was the word that came to mind. The Head was entirely inconsiderate to her age, her gender, the fact it'd only been two months since she'd recovered the strength to walk again. He pinned her against men twice her age in battles. He made her run entire nights. He countered her complaining by taking away food, water, and sleep privileges. The worst thing after a long run was another long run.

"Just five minutes…"

"I told you that you'd have to go through the same training as the rest of my men, which means no special treatment." He kicked her legs, "Don't whimper like that—It only means I have to push you twice as hard from now on."

Rose stood up, her knees wobbling dangerously.

"Run," He instructed, shoving her so that she staggered a bit but maintained her balance. Using her hands to level herself, she narrowed her eyes on the shadowy silhouettes running ahead of her so her head would stop spinning and she could see straight. Then she began to move. He told her this training would build discipline, something she was apparently very much in need of. "Magic is entirely useless to a wizard who cannot even stand the test of endurance." He informed her again. "This is a lesson you will carry with you the rest of your life. The willingness to move forward is the only thing that can save you now."

After the physical training came the magical one. Sadly, it wasn't much better.

"Bombarda… Confundo….Defodia…" The Head shot spell after spell at her from the tip of his wand, barely even flexing an inch. On Rose's part, there was more physical movement involved—mostly running to avoid being pulverized. Her arms flailed around her.

"DAMN IT!" She cursed, as the hex hit her straight in the chest.

"Weasley! For the love of Merlin, use your wand!"

Despite frantic efforts to grip her wand, Rose watched in dismay as it slipped through her shaking hands. As she snapped to get it, the Head attacked. "No, no, no— Everte Statum!"

She was blasted full force into a tree, hitting the back of her head and sliding onto the ground.

"Focus! You mustn't let your fear distract you!"

She groaned, rubbing her head, and stood up again.

"Fix your stance!"

She bent her knees, stretching her right leg out in front so that her torso would stay straight and level. "Protego!" Charm after charm shot out the tip of her wand to block her trainer's hexes, yet they grew feebler with each try. Damn it—her hands felt slippery again. Her head was spinning; she felt slow, disoriented, easily distracted. All the confidence she'd had in her abilities began to wane. All those potions and dueling awards, her ass. It didn't mean a thing in the real world.

"Expulso!"

The giant explosion blew her backwards and she fell rolling, eventually to land face down on the ground. A strange tingling sensation passed down the middle of her face. She lifted her head to touch her nose, and upon realizing it was broken, let out a loud moan. Hot fresh tears emerged in her eyes. She bit her cracked lips, hard until they bled, in order to stop the dry sobs rising up her throat.

"Bloody hell— are you crying, Weasley?" There was amusement in his tone, but only there to mask the utter surprise. He had grown accustomed to pushing her beyond her abilities without too much resistance (aside from the occasional swear word). He had meant to break her defiance. He just never knew it would be this hard to watch a small girl cry. She said something in a garbled voice which he didn't catch.

"Pardon?"

She wept, her voice breaking. "I can't…I shouldn't have to—"

"Don't give me that." He grumbled, his face reddening. Guilt was not an emotion he would feed. Grabbing her roughly by the arm, he pulled her off the ground and held her by the shoulders. "You don't have the luxury to wear the face of a victim, Weasley." He said sternly, "Delicate flowers die in the cold—you have to be a weed. You don't get to feel sorry for yourself and cry like this. Got it?"

No response.

He grabbed her by her small shoulders and looked her squarely in the eyes.

"There's someone counting on you, Weasley."

The statement reminded Rose so much of what her father had once said to her that she wanted to cry again, but she shook the notion away and lowered her gaze to the ground before it could grow into anything else. The Head would never be anything like her father. Not in a million years.

But he was right. She didn't have the luxury to be a victim of circumstance. Not if she wanted to defy the odds.

Rose never wanted to be an auror, even in school. She was an academic, with a fondness for research and books. Dueling was something she excelled at to keep Albus at bay, not a career pathway.

The countless days and sleepless nights, filled with strenuous training. The running until her lungs caved in and her muscles broke down while the Head shouted at her to keep up with the men that were twice her age. The cruel survival techniques they drummed into her head, like what were the best spots to strike an enemy, how to knock an opponent out in less than thirty seconds, or which veins caused the most hemorrhaging.

Her wand was becoming her weapon, and slowly, ever so miserably she was becoming a thing she despised. A monster. At the mere age of 16.

Absolute hell

_There's someone counting on you Weasley_

That thought stuck with her, kept her from throwing in the towel and running away. The magic she used to save Hugo's life had even begun to reverse his condition—he was getting better. Which meant that it was up to her to pave his future, make sure he got precisely the life he deserved after a limited childhood.

_"You should listen to the Head," Hugo urged her. "I know he's not Dad, but he's looking out for you. Yeah I get he's corrupt and using you for his own selfish schemes but really, what politician isn't these days. And you can use him the way he's using you."_

"Hugo, he's a sociopath who wants to make me his super weapon."

"Sociopath is a strong word, Rosie. Besides, he's smart and he can make you smart too. Merlin knows you need it."

"Are you calling me stupid?"

"I'm just saying—ok ow, ow, that hurts! I'm just saying that he knows his way around the ministry and that's not necessarily a bad place to end up. I mean Mum and Dad aren't…around anymore. We have to think about our future."

"Don't you think I know that? Don't you think I'm doing this for us?"

_"And the Head honestly doesn't sound that bad. Most of his rules make sense, especially the not seeing any boys thing. Dad had that rule too, remember?"_

"Hugo—honestly, the last thing on my mind is boys!"

Yeah, yeah. He rolled his eyes at this. "Like Teddy wasn't all you thought about Third Year-"

"Things are different now." She said dismissively.

Because she knew she was breathing—she was alive. Because there was nothing else in her life to look forward to, and there was nothing left to fall back on. Her parents were dead, her family had abandoned her, and she owed a debt for her 'freedom' to the ministry.

Because she knew that at the end of the day she wasn't sitting waiting to die alone, and all that she felt was nothing.

Absolutely _nothing_ compared to what he had been through.

* * *

Hugo told himself that if his sister could manage Auror training, then he could manage to walk. Slowly, tentatively, he lifted himself, his hands clenching the sides of his wheelchair. The muscles of his arms vibrated as pain shot through his right leg. He had been at this for weeks now. Each day he lifted himself more, little by little, pushing himself to the edge of his capacity. His progress wasn't startling like Rose's, but composed small, humble steps.

In this way it was also more admirable.

He fell back into his wheelchair, gasping, as his sister entered the room.

"I'm getting better." He informed her.

"So am I."

"We're really doing this, aren't we?"

She could see the tired, brilliant grin on his face and it made her positively beam with pride. There was something about his genuine smile, the fact that they were both striving for a common goal, that warmed her. She didn't have to worry about the aching burden of him dying anytime soon. Not before her, at least.

"All right, Hugo. Once more."

"No, Rose. I'm tired-"

"Oh, come now!" She put her hands under his bony armpits and pulled him up, as one did with a small child. It was clear from his sullen-eyed expression that Hugo disliked being manhandled.

"Put your arms around my neck." She instructed. He stood an inch of two shorter than her. He made his whining face, lower lip protruding.

"This is _embarrassing_. I mean it looks like we're dancing! What if someone sees—"

"Oh don't be a ninny."

"Shut up! I'm not a ninny."

Reluctantly, he put his arms around her. Rose nodded approvingly. "Now, follow my steps."

As a single functioning unit, they moved—Hugo slowly trudging forward in an infant-like way. He kept his attention on his wavering legs, making sure to mimic her steps.

"Hey Rosie, you ever…think of Mum and Dad? If they were still here?"  
Rose didn't answer for a moment. It had only been a year. The image of their bodies being carried away in caskets was still vivid in her mind.

"Not really."

"Liar." Hugo scowled and asked to be let off. Rose helped him toward his cot and sat beside him. On his bedside she could see an old photo album, open to a random page where the four of them stood smiling, dressed in the hideous reindeer sweaters Nana Molly had gifted. It was the Christmas they had gone to Munich—she was seven and Hugo was five, much before he had been diagnosed with muscular dystrophy.

"You miss them, huh."

"All the time. Don't you?"

"I can barely remember what it was like with them." Rose admitted. Her life had shifted so drastically since then she couldn't imagine it having ever been normal.

"So, I mean," Hugo stretched his neck uncomfortably, "You know that spell you used to…resurrect me. Have you ever thought about—"  
"Stop."

There was a pause. His watery blue eyes searched hers in desperation.

"Why not?"

"Because, Hugo. There's a reason dark magic is strictly forbidden and they were going to send me to Azkaban—"

"But—"

"No, listen…I got _lucky_." She looked at him intently, "The spell is dangerous dark magic. And dark magic always has a price. I can't _ever_ do it again, you understand? No one can."

Hugo decided to let the matter drop, though it was clear there was something she wasn't telling him. They played a couple games of exploding snap (he won) before ordering dinner, along with a chocolate-banana sundae that Hugo more or less devoured by himself, much to his sister's annoyance. A couple more games followed, which Hugo also won, and Rose found herself thinking of all the places she'd be able to take him once he fully recovered. Beaches, parks, movies, arcades, swimming, quidditch matches—the list was endless. Maybe they'd go somewhere abroad, like Paris, when she made the money (their parents' fortune had been confiscated by Gringotts since Rose was technically a convicted felon, and Hugo was technically supposed to be dead). After they finished, Rose was picking up her things when he surprised her with some abrupt news.

"So a boy came looking for you today."

She had put on her jacket and was now tying her shoes. "I don't know any boys."

"Tall, blond, good looking. Sure you don't know a Scorpius Malfoy?"

Her brow tensed, "What'd you tell him, Hugo?"

"Oh _come on_, Rose. You should've seen his face—the way he _begged_—"

"I can't believe you! You told him where I was staying, didn't you?"

"He just wants to talk—"

"I know what he wants, Hugo, and let me tell you it has _Albus_ written all over it." She ran an angry hand through her hair, "He just can't stand that things are going well for me so he has to intervene. This is just another one of his tricks."

Hugo met her gaze. "You don't mean that. Albus is, well… he's special. And he's insanely brilliant too. And a little kooky. And he's the only one that's your—"

My what?" She said bitingly, "Go on, say it. My _friend_? Albus doesn't have friends. He has people he uses and then disregards them. You know that. There's only one thing he's after and this time he doesn't get it. I'm done with him forever."

Hugo rolled his eyes as she kissed his cheek and disappeared into the hallways.

"You always say that, Rose."


	4. Jolt

_Disclaimer: Harry Potter belongs to the original author and her publishers. This fanfiction is for entertainment purposes only._

* * *

**IV:**

**Jolt**

**Rose becomes Auror, Scorpius emerges as a vital link, and Albus deals with his demons. A shocking incident occurs.**

* * *

"And today, ladies and gentlemen, I would like to welcome another one among you." The Head placed two hands on her shoulders. "Ms. Weasley, here, has finally passed her physical and magical examinations and been awarded her ranking position of Auror. She has now become your equal."

There was obligatory clapping in the room of marginally older men and women officers, coupled with fierce glares and scowling. She could see only the aged Whitaker smiling at her through his brown crinkled skin. Nonetheless, Rose had known she wouldn't be well-liked. The Head had known that too, yet he felt inclined to punish her with unwanted praise. It was like rubbing salt on the wounds of hungry lions, and she was but a faint antelope in his twisted animal hierarchy.

When he called the meeting to end and dismissed everyone, he kept her there.

"You were late this morning, Weasley."

"I'm sorry, sir."

"Now, now, I don't want excuses! I reminded you that this was an important day and yet you neglected to listen to me."

Rose didn't bother pointing out that he had never mentioned anything of the sort.

"Not only are you now a ranking officer, Weasley, but you must behave like one. This callous attitude of yours must cease, do you hear me? I will not tolerate any tomfoolery, and neither will your colleagues. Any _whiff_ of disobedience and I will send you straight to Azkaban like you belong."

She never got tired of hearing that.

"Of course, sir."

"Now I should probably mention that your colleagues probably won't be fond of you. You are, after all, younger and haven't trained nearly as long as them. Therefore, you will tolerate any type of hazing, abuse, or harassment they inflict upon you, no matter how _humiliating or painful." _

He paused for a moment to observe her reaction. When there wasn't one, he continued, a bit more irritably:

"Your purpose here is different than theirs, Weasley. Despite your rank, you do not serve the ministry. Your missions will be different, separate, off-record. You will be alone. You will follow my orders without questioning, no matter how obscene, treacherous, or difficult they may be."

"Of course, sir."

"You will not consult the law. You will not consult your conscience. You will not consult human decency or reason. If this is too difficult for you to understand, speak your mind now."

Her pause was as quick as a deafening heartbeat.

"No, sir. I completely understand."

* * *

Rose paused speaking.

"You look as if you have a question, Mr. Walker."

"Well, as interested as I am in hearing about your professional endeavors, I would like to know about the Scorpius character present in both yours and Mr. Potter's memoirs."

"I had meant to talk as little about him as possible."

The pained expression on her face was difficult to ignore.

"You don't have to," I murmured quietly, "But I would like to hear it."

She gave a morose chuckle. "You don't wish to leave a dying woman any shred of privacy. You wish to bleed me out completely."

I didn't see how she could talk about the emerging war without talking about Scorpius.

"There are some that believe that Mr. Malfoy was the war."

"Scorpius was _not_ the war." She countered sharply. "Do not make the same mistake the rest of the world has. War is not a person—it cannot be confined to the actions of a single being. It is the careful accumulation of events, an ever growing _hunger_ …and there are those in this world whose cruelty will never be sated."

I pressed my mouth in a hard line, unbudgingly.

The woman gave a weary sigh.

"Very well, I shall tell you about Scorpius. I'll have to start from the beginning— the very beginning, mind you. It will take a while. I won't skip ahead to the parts you want."

"I want all the parts."

* * *

He thought, with a nervous feeling in the pit of his stomach, about how he had probably broken a dozen rules to create a port-key and sneak out from school. Scorpius was no stranger to trouble—rather, trouble loved every blond hair on his devilishly handsome head—but he knew getting caught would effect a punishment far beyond any other. Strange enough, he felt no apprehension when he flooded the girl's bathrooms last year to cause a distraction, helping Albus sneak into the Chamber of Secrets, or changed the Gryffindor colors to a revolting shade of pink for the hell of it, but of course, this was far beyond any childish school prank. He stood outside the Head's house, his mouth dry, his fist against the panel of the front door—risking expulsion for a _girl. _

No one would be able to understand why he was doing so, least of all Scorpius himself.

The door was promptly yanked open by a man he recognized from the papers—the Head. He towered over the blond in all his menacing, scar-faced glory.

"Who the hell are you?"

"I'm…_was_ a classmate of We—_Rose_, um, sir. May I see…"

Scorpius could hear footsteps rustling and the familiar voice calling to ask what it was. She poked her head through the doorway, freezing, eyes widening, mouth unhinging at the sight of him. They stood face to face, and Scorpius couldn't help but stare her in—a wave of relief washing over him. She was _alive_, in the flesh, no doubt the same girl he remembered from Fourth Year.

_She was alive_.

An entire year.

_She was alive. _

It was the same hair, same sparse freckles, same lips, same eyes, but somehow different. Less child-like. More feminine. It was the subtle things—the cinching of the waist, the softness of features, the more adult expression of rage in the eyes directed at him.

_She was alive. _

The Head observed them both disdainfully.

"You know this boy, Weasley?"

"Never seen him in my life."

Scorpius blinked, appearing bewildered for a moment, and then scowled. Her anger was so characteristically misplaced he would've laughed if he wasn't so pissed. He would not admit that he had worried for her, spent countless nights contemplating what she must've been facing, but could she not see it in his expression? Sure they weren't friends, but were they such strangers that she couldn't read how relieved he was to see her?

Did she think he would just give up that easily?

He observed as the Head interrogated his ward.

"Are you lying to me, Weasley?"

"Of course not, sir."

"I've told you about seeing boys._ I've told you to sever all ties with—"_

"Rose petal, don't you remember me?" Scorpius cooed, "One of your _many, many_ boyfriends from school."

Rose gaped, the Head's eyes bulged dangerously, and Scorpius continued, wriggling his eyebrows.

"I wouldn't be surprised if the others start showing up at your doorstep soon, with that reputation of yours. You always were a wild-"

"H-He's a compulsive liar, sir." Rose stammered, "You can't believe a single word that comes out his abnormally large mouth."

"I thought you said you didn't know him, girl."

She began shrinking. "I don't. I just mean—"

"How can you say that, flower petal? How can you call our love a lie?" Scorpius watched gleefully as she grew more outraged by the second, "Did I mean nothing to you? Wasn't I your favorite lover? All those passionate nights we shared, under the _moonlight_, where I caressed your—"

"MALFOY, SHUT YOUR FAT MOUTH OR I WILL BEAT YOUR ASS TO A PULP!"

_Ah ha_. Scorpius grinned at her seething, red-faced confession. The Head looked absolutely irate.

"There will be no ass-beating today, Weasley! Now you get yours back upstairs and I will schedule a medical appointment for tomorrow."

Rose opened and closed her mouth like a fish, bent on arguing but quickly realized resistance would prove futile. As she sulked away, The Head turned his attention toward the smirking blond.

"Damn this child raising business."

"Indeed."

"Now you better get lost before I call the authorities, boy."

"I thought you were the authorities."

"Yes I-"

The Head froze at the realization he had been outsmarted by a wry adolescent and so, finding himself at a rare lack of words, slammed the door.

But Scorpius was very wry indeed—in fact, from the moment he laid his fine eyes on Rose, he had assessed the situation and come to the conclusion that there was no chance of private conversation (or anything _more_) until he diverted the abysmal guardian.

Having changed tactics on the spot, Scorpius would now organize his next plan of attack.

At the very same moment, Rose was crumbling into her sheets, unsure which of her emotions was more prevalent: anger or gut-wrenching surprise. She and Scorpius had always waded amongst a fine line with each other, not-quite-amiable, not-quite-hateful, not-quite-_anything_ —a tempestuous no man's land—where Albus created tornadoes of tension and spite consuming them both, and that accursed _one other innuendo_ neither of them could wrap their pubescent heads around. Juvenile pranks were often deemed the solution to the emerging fiery tempers—being pushed into the lake, tying him to the back of a sleeping hippogriff, being locked in the dungeons, gluing him to Flitwick's ceiling, being handcuffed to a house-elf (who started _crying_, to her luck), tricking him into drinking that wart-growing potion, and then putting up with those _incessant_ gobstone plummetings on Valentine's day.

Bruises and taunting and angry name-calling followed that sort of thing, and yet all Rose could focus on was the abnormally long time she had spent trying to figure out whether the love letters tied to the gobstones were sincere, or how Scorpius took that slag Wanda Jules to the Yule Ball when she made it so obvious she wanted him to ask _her. _

Unsure—that was the word Rose would associated with Scorpius.

Followed shortly by _Albus's pet. _

Sudden rapping on the window made her pulse shoot, but she forced myself calm and climbed out of bed. A familiar head of hair stood on a ladder outside her pane, blond fringes dangling carelessly with his lashes as he waited, a smug expression resting on his face. She glared at him wordlessly before pulling up the glass.

"It's four in the morning." She said icily.

"You said I had an abnormally large mouth. I checked and I reckon it's pretty normal sized."

"Did you hear me? I said it's four in the morning."

"I'm glad you can read time, Weasley."

"I'll push you off."

"Go ahead." He chuckled, "I'll scream, break my leg, wake your hellish guardian, and everyone on the street will wonder _why_ I'd been climbing through your window in the first place."

The threat was vicious enough to make her reconsider hers.

Hesitantly, she allowed the blond to take hold of her arm and climb in.

Rose folded her arms as he scrounged around her rather unimpressive living quarters— the single white-sheeted bed, small chest for clothes, 'HEAD AUROR for MINISTER _crossed_ DICTATOR' posters on the walls, and stack of old books in the corner.

"Nice cupboard, Weasley. About as big as my bathroom at home."

"Did Albus send you?"

Scorpius shoved his hands in his pockets, as he nosily inspected her propaganda adorned walls. He twirled around toward her. "_Merlin_, why does every conversation have to start like this? Why can't you ever say 'oh, hey Malfoy, how's it been? Gee, you're looking really handsome…did you do something different with your hair?'"

"Your hair looks nice…Did Albus send you?"

"No."

"You're lying."

He paid no heed to her accusation, sprawling out on her bed _with his shoes_, breathing in as he closed his eyes contemplatively. Rose scratched the sensation to levitate him out the window and into the chrysanthemums. Definitely too much noise.

"I have to sleep there."

"I know. I left space for you."

Her cheeks glazed with red. "I want you to leave, Malfoy."

Scorpius opened his eyes and glanced up at her, "Do you know how many rules I broke to get here in the first place?"

"Should I be flattered? Because I don't recall asking you to come and disturb my life."

"I think you should be flattered regardless."

She nearly lost her temper on the spot.

"So what was the deal with the whole charade you pulled out there?" She seethed, "_Flower petal?! _And in front of my boss, no less, who's now going to have me tested for blasted STDs. As if I don't have enough to—_why the hell are you grinning?" _

"Nothing, it's just," He struggled not to smile, "I'm glad you look well, considering…you know, everything."

Her anger deflated a little.

"Thanks."

Scorpius nodded, sitting up on her bed and fumbling with the ends of his jacket. "So how's your new life?"

"It could be worse. It could be Azkaban."

"As optimistic as ever, Weasley."

Despite the sarcastic playfulness, he understood precisely what she meant. The idea had haunted him the same way it had haunted her.

He hastily changed the subject.

"So you haven't missed much at school, though I don't reckon you're coming back with the expulsion and…things. Anyway, Filch's cat caught fire again this week. Slytherin beat Gryffindor at the last match, thanks to yours truly… Slughorn's always complaining about you being gone, now that no one can answer any of his questions."

"I'm sure Albus could."

"Well, you know what he's like. He'll never give fatso the satisfaction…though he does miss you, err, Albus that is." The last half of his comment was latched on with a sloppy grin.

"I bet he told you to say that."

"That doesn't mean he's lying."

Undisputed, unavoidable reality deemed Albus was always lying, but Rose didn't want to pick the argument. Malfoy's pseudo-passive, skirting-around-the-real-issue act was beginning to tire her.

"So what about you?" she asked, for the first time making contact with his grey eyes. "Are you here because he asked you to be or because you miss me?"

"Do I get a third choice?"

"Answer the question."

"Officer Weasley," The obligatory eye roll and glib smile, "I miss your obnoxious pencil biting, yelling-at-me, potion-dumping-in-my-lap ways. I hereby turn myself over to the Ministry because apparently that's a crime."

"I never said it was!"

"Then why are you getting so worked up about it?"

"Because you're being facetious!"

"I thought I was being flirtatious. Guess it wasn't obvious enough."

A coy smile rested on his features. It was so strange, so nerve-wracking, so _direct_ that Rose turned her attention toward the window, her insides fluttering tumultuously.

"I think you should leave now."

He got off her bed and lazily stretched his arms. "Right." He yawned, "There's an awful Runes exam today I should probably get some notes copied for. Next time I'll come earlier so that we have more time—"

"There's not going to be a next time."

The face flickered, startled, and the playfulness tired. The ends of his mouth curved downward.

"Give me a good reason why." He stepped toward her, scowling. "Not that I don't think you have one, or several. And they're all probably justified in some annoying way."

She swallowed, observing his distance. "You wouldn't understand."

But Scorpius didn't want to deal with excuses. The passing year had made his insides ache, and he wasn't sure he could bring himself to care about the whole 'I'll get in trouble' or 'I don't want to see you' or 'my life's too complicated' tirade. They were no longer school children with multiple opportunities at each other, the time for pretending otherwise had long started to fade. The world was tilting in an ugly direction—his window with Rose would soon close.

He couldn't let that happen.

"Till next time, Weasley." He muttered, leaning in to brush his lips against her cheek. Within seconds he was back on the ladder outside the window, out of her sight.

* * *

Shadows reflected over the symmetrical rows of tombstones as the sun dunked into the horizon. His father's was rectangular and cut from stone far larger and thicker than any of the others—a monument-like testament to his heroism. Albus observed the engraving on the front with indifference.

_R.I.P  
Harry J. Potter  
1980-2021  
Beloved Hero, Friend, Husband  
Father_

The last one had been carved in by James, latched on like an afterthought. Confronting the dead parent now did not give Albus the sort of resolution it had given his siblings—the moments _they_ had shared were not quite so pleasant.

For the past couple years he had frantically scrambled to revive it from his otherwise photographic memory, every instance, every lesson with his father in order to justify his hatred; It came in fragments in the dead of night— the cold sweat on his forehead, the hardness of the ground, the pangs of pain shooting through his middle as the result of his father's conditioning— but in the end, he couldn't save it all.

_"Crucio." _

The convulsions, the fatigue, the extraordinary amount of willpower his seven-year old self would summon to keep his mouth from screaming while his body felt as if it was tearing itself to pieces— but most importantly, mixed with soreness afterwards, it was the indescribable pleasure of meeting his father's approval.

_"Now, son, remember that this pain is nothing but a mind trick. The ultimate manipulation of this curse, you see, rests in the recipient. Rather than deflect, I want you to control your emotions, make your hardness your strength, never allow for doubt to invade the security of your mind, and you will be stronger, much stronger, than anyone else." _

Slowly he had learned to love it, the sadism, the torture, the taste of success, disguised in bitterness and blood, that marked his endurance. His mind repressed the worst of it, but all that he remembered he found to be indefinitely useful.

_"And if you find someday that you cannot trust in me, trust in my teachings, and most importantly, trust in what you know…you know that I love you more than anything, Albus."_

"I know, Dad." His voice would echo, like a broken recording.

Everything became so much easier once you stopped feeling.

* * *

Scorpius woke up at least twice a week, to watch the silhouette hunched over in the bed across from his, forehead covered in sweat, face contorted in fear, gasping as though he was being drowned. Sheets crumpled to the ground as nightmares plagued his friend.

Friend was a strange word to use for Albus, who dismissed any notion of such attachment as frivolous, superficial, and crippling. From day one, Albus had been upfront with Scorpius that he had no use for the word _friend_.

Nevertheless Scorpius continued using it.

His night terrors worsened and the dark-haired boy slid off his bed, landing on the ground with a loud painful thud. Previous incidents would compel Scorpius to shoot out of his own bed and help, but such compassion was often resisted with a _Piss off, Malfoy. I'm fine_. Therefore, when Albus woke up from his frightful nightmares, gasping for air, wide-eyed, stone-faced, Scorpius would pretend to be asleep. Oftentimes, Albus would pretend to believe him.

This was not one of those times.

"I know you're awake."

Scorpius opened an eyelid, watching as his friend sauntered to the bathroom sink, a drowsy heaviness in his step. Acknowledgement meant it had been a particularly horrifying night. Of course Albus never told him what the nightmares were about, and the blond didn't intrude by asking. His friend's demons were his alone to battle, just as they had always been.

Albus made it clear that he didn't need help. That he didn't need anyone.

Scorpius stood by the door pane, watching as the dark-haired boy splashed cold water on his face, the cold porcelain features so distraught they looked fragile.

"Check the doors, Scorp."

"I did, Albus, they're locked."

"And the windows?"

"I checked everything."

"You promise?"

A childish query, but one that Scorpius would answer whole-heartedly, grinning.

"Always, _Potter_."

"You won't tell anyone about this." Albus coughed violently into the bowl, "You hear me? You won't speak a word—"

"Yes, yes, I know the drill. You'll destroy me. You'll ruin my life. You'll murder my unborn child— but honestly, I keep your secrets for the asking. You don't have to threaten me _every time_." Scorpius often wondered whether Albus didn't understand the concept of trust, or whether he just preferred aggressive bullying.

"We're not _friends_, Malfoy. Get that through your thick head now." He spat viciously, glaring at him through the mirror.

"I never said we were."

"Then don't _act_ as if…as if—" He subsided into a coughing fit more severe than earlier. Scorpius sighed, his eyes weary, his shoulders descending—it would be a long night indeed if his friend insisted on being so stubborn.

"You sound like hell. Just go lay down. I'll get the tea."

"I didn't _ask_ for—"

"Will you just shut up and do as I say?!" Scorpius glared at Albus, whose brows drew up. He had not been expecting such ferocious insolence.

"You don't speak to me like that."

"I apologize profusely, _master. _There, is that better?"

Albus tightened his jaw, surveying him coldly. "Earl Grey."

"Yes, yes, I know." Scorpius muttered, hands in his pockets as he stalked out the doorway.

Passing swiftly through the halls and avoiding the prefect routes, he arrived in the kitchens where various house elves were busy toiling away for the next day. He only had to say two words.

"Potter's favorite."

The house elves were fond of Albus, not because he was kind, nor caring to fake it, but because he had helped them arrange a strike for better wages the year prior (which had resulted, as deliberately planned, with the Gryffindor common room in shambles). Obviously Albus hadn't done it out of some understanding of their plight, or _Merlin forbid_, because he actually had a heart underneath his shell of ice. It was more or less to test his powers of control against the Head Boy last year—a disdainful Gryffindor who often awarded him with detention. For some reason or other, Albus was always trying to see how far he could pit things.

Normally Scorpius enjoyed the intrusive thrill this created in his otherwise conventional life, but occasionally, he had to wonder what went through his friend's head.

With Albus, you could never be sure of anything.

* * *

"Anthony Rimbaud." The Head stated, passing her over a file. "32. Widowed. Head of the International Magical office of Law. Pureblood aristocracy. Previous affiliation with renegade underground movements. Attends the Minister's tea parties. A dangerous enemy that can be turned to a vital ally if you play your cards right."

Rose glanced through the file.

"And you want me… to convince him?"

"No."

"Kidnap him?"

"No."

"Seduce him?" The very thought made her stomach turn.

"Heavens no, Weasley. My house-elves are more sophisticated in the art of seduction than you. Your task is much simpler. Rimbaud is in the possession of a rare, very valuable basilisk egg that I would like. Naturally, would I to end up with such a blackmail worthy possession, I could not only place his entire career in jeopardy, but the nature of his underground work."

"So theft, then."

"I expect it won't be too difficult." He said tonelessly, surveying his fingernails.

"Probably not, sir."

"Excellent." He stood up and walked over to his fireplace, "Now come along, I need to collect a delivery from my contact in the markets."

Rose hadn't been out in wizard streets since the incident with her brother. It was always through the use of floo powder that she traveled from the Head's estate to the Ministry to the training ground and to the hospital to see her brother, where the staff had been instructed to keep her presence secret. The Head didn't allow her to read newspapers or talk with reporters—he said the aftermath didn't concern her, that she had caused enough trouble in the world without needing it relayed it back to her, and she didn't argue.

Rose had been living in a bubble until she stepped ashen foot into what looked like Knockturn alley, with its leaky streets, dampened shadows, and promise of secrecy. Hoods draped over their faces, she followed the quick-footed Head as they cut seamlessly through the masses of people, shifting shoulders and avoiding eye-contact. Unexpectedly the Head side-stepped into a questionable looking shop to the left, and Rose followed suit.

"Close the door behind you, girl." A raspy voice spoke, hunched, disturbingly deformed figure slinking out of the shadows, "Vincent, if it isn't my favorite customer. What shall I get you today? Perhaps a jar of goblin eyes?"

"We're on Ministry business, Toad." The Head spoke curtly but the hunched man's attention had been diverted toward Rose. He vanished into thin air and popped up unnervingly close in front of her, leering at her with abnormally large eyes. Rose struggled not to whimper as he traced his malformed hand across her face.

"What an interesting specimen you've collected, Vincent. So soft, so _supple_ —"

"Observe your place, Toad." The Head spoke sharply, "Rose Weasley is a ranking officer and you will treat her with respect. From this point on she will serve as my messenger in Diagon Alley."

Her eyes shot open. _Diagon Alley? _

"My apologies, _Rose Weasley_" The man hissed, retracting his hand. Turning around he shot a steady glare at the Head. "You intend to bring her here and set her loose in a field of dogs, Vincent, I certainly hope power has not blinded you and made you _stupid_. You have seen the streets as they are, the world as it is."

"I am every wary of my actions." The Head eyes gleamed as he turned his attention toward Rose. "Wait outside until my business here is done, and do not speak with anyone. Do not make it known that you are here."

She nodded, speechless, her mouth turning dry as she stepped outside. Her heart plummeted with the realization that the streets in which she stood, grey and solemn and bustling with fearsome faces rather than joy—was _Diagon_ alley.

Precisely what had happened in the past year?

Shops darkened from the inside, trash littered the streets, an unspoken presence of fear harbored every startled pair of eyes she accidentally came into contact with. People scoured past her in the alley, careful never to linger anywhere too long— Rose made herself blend instantaneously. It was the rare but self-preserving quality about her that even the Head often remarked on.

Disregarding the tell-all Weasley hair, there was absolutely nothing distinctive about Rose. Her eyes the unremarkable color of mud, her facial features not unappealing but easily forgettable— sparsely powdered with freckles, and her body the archetype of a standard lean figure. Unlike Albus, with his striking good looks and enigmatic sensuality and always towering presence, who was able to turn heads simply upon entering a room and stir unwholesome feelings in the other gender, creating a general sense of awe—Rose faded into the background. She could morph through any group of people, shifting and passing seamlessly through conversations and facades and attitudes. Clothes changed, and she transformed from scared-shitless adolescent to respectable authority figure to blank face in the crowd.

Albus would fool the world with his charm and wit, but Rose was the true Impressionist.

Someday, she'd even fool herself.

But a fatal mistake would occur that day, shattering the essence of her disguise and causing the second most devastating accident of her life. It would occur in five steps. First, a distraction—Rose paused gazing at the barred shops. Second, the irrelevant man blindly pacing through from the right, late for an appointment at Gringotts to arrange for a loan, because he'd recently been laid off and his house, where his three children and wife lived but had no idea, was behind payment.

Third, that moment where they bumped shoulders.

Fourth, her hood would slide inches, revealing strands of tell-all red that would instantaneously be adjusted with feverish hands. "S-Sorry," A stammered response, followed by a queer look manifest of something so obscure it could easily have been overlooked. Perhaps he remembered a picture from the Daily Prophet or perhaps he had been on the trial the day her sentence had been proclaimed or perhaps he was part of Mungo's staff and had once spotted her shifting through the hospital to see her brother. Or perhaps this man just had an impossibly sharp eye.

Fifth, the _blasted_ look of recognition, followed by a hasty step back.

"R-R-Rose W-Weasley." He sputtered, just loud enough for the person passing beside him to hear. A whisper, no, plural— _whispers_, mumblings, traveling, interrupting, shifting with the once dead but now invigorated monster of a crowd as people one-by-one began to halt and steely, perplexed eyes hungrily searched each other. Rose could feel her heart stop pounding, falling as deathly silent as the rest of her. Her eyes traveled upward—offering a silent prayer to whoever still listened.

_Please no…_

"She's over there!"

The beast was alive. There were screams followed by a division of movement, away and toward. Fear and desperation. The latter composed everyone who had ever lost anyone ever, everyone so tormented and broken that they would do anything, _anything_ to bring back a loved one. Her eyes widened in horror at the absolute madness unfolding. Screaming, tearing, pushing, pulling, shoving, falling, hurting, kicking, desperate to get to her, the beast was hungry and violent. They were trampling _over_ each other to get to her. Women over children. Men over women. Giant waves of bodies crashing into the next, leaving tattered figures as remains. Every man for himself, killing for the secret to life, their voices overlapping. Rose please! my daughter! my son! my father! my uncle! my husband! please, no, me first! I need help! you're the only one, please! you have to help! you have to help! you have to help!

_You have to help. _

Rose was petrified, unable to move.

A beam of light shot from the distance creating a shield between her and the masses of people plummeting toward her. A quick apparition occurred to her right, hands grabbing her by the shoulder, and the two of them were gone.

In the Head's office, Rose ended up violently thrown to the floor.

"What the hell did I tell you?!" He roared at her, "Didn't I tell you to remain inconspicuous?! Do you have any idea the mess you've caused?! Blast it!" He slammed his desk in anger, throwing off papers.

She trembled, her mouth unable to form a single coherent thought. Except one.

"A-Accid—"

"Accident?" The Head laughed spitefully, "No, Weasley, you don't get to make any more accidents. The world out there has gone mad—people are killing people because of your _accidents. _"


End file.
